A Hundred and Eleven
by Ygrain33
Summary: A one-shot from Shepard's time in Vancouver. A response to Zute's challenge to write something in first person PoV.


The broad window provides a view of the terraces below, with all the greenery and playing kids; further off, a few high-rise buildings glisten in the sun.

A nice view… through a shatter-proof, bullet-proof window which cannot be opened. Through a one-way pane which lets me see wide and far, yet I am neither seen nor heard myself. Those kids down below have no idea that the polished panes of the government building conceal a well-guarded detention cell.

From what I can see, they are staging a space battle, with models of cruisers and frigates and geth dreadnoughts… they've got it wrong, of course.

_Wrong._

The broad, unrestrained view… I am almost inclined to think of it as of a form of refined psychical torture.

I close my eyes for a moment but don't lean my head against the window: no need to give the psychologists something to chew on – as if they needed some more. Instead, I turn away and walk over the room, the exact number of steps it always takes. I sit by the console and open the last save of the galactic chess; I've already got rid of the habit to try and pull the chair closer.

All the furniture is fixed to the floor… routine safety precautions. After all, I might get cranky and try to smash someone's head with it… as if it could help.

_It might help me to pass the time, though._

Sure, it's a cosy cell I have here, like small hotel room, with e-books to read, films to watch, games to play, even science to study, if I ask for a database access…

But no news, no network connection, no e-mails, no visitors.

Anderson's been here, once, and Hackett, to pass on what little info and encouragement they could, and investigators and psychologists aplenty; I've been escorted all around the building, for tests and interrogations and hearings.

Once, I was even transported elsewhere, in a heavily armoured and guarded vehicle, handcuffs and all the jazz – to an interrogation in the presence of a batarian attaché, who was flaying me alive with his eyes, and as nasty as he could get without laying a finger on me.

_All in all, a loser. N7, remember? Been through worse, during the training._

_Only, the training failed to include that part when you're being held by your own people._

I realize I've been staring at the chess position for quite some time, without actually seeing it.

_The deranged Commander Connor Shepard._

The charges have been swaying from terrorism to insanity, back and forth.

Sometimes, I wish I _were_ deranged: the Reapers merely a product of my deluded mind, the people safe.

I get up from the console and do my usual round of sit-ups, push-ups and whatever exercise I can come up with in the limited space, and I don't give a damn what the _psychos_ might make of jumps over the table.

_Fixed furniture does have its advantages._

Then I go have a shower: the unlimited supply of water is the one thing that really sweetens the time here.

_I'd gladly swap it for the rationed army supply any second, anywhere else but here._

I put on the boxers but don't bother with the rest of the clothes. I sit in the lotus position on the bed and close my eyes, concentrating on my breath to empty my mind, as Samara taught me.

I sink into the memory of her calm voice and of the unmoving stars in the darkness of the space, and, once again, send my silent thanks to wherever she is.

_One hundred and eleven days, caged and unable to do a thing._

"_You are the only solid point in the universe, Commander. You are your only refuge: within yourself."_

_My only refuge… my only escape. From the cell, from the constant overview of the cameras, from the questions I have answered a hundred times._

_From the routine of the maddeningly slowly passing time._

_From despair._

When I open my eyes again, it's already dark; the countless lights of the night Vancouver reflecting in the sky. The hundred-eleventh day has passed into the night, the hundred-twelfth will dawn into the same small room, with the same view.

I do not know what scares me more: that I might break, or that I might get used to it.

Day one hundred and eleven passed.

* * *

A/N: _No, I'm not abandoning DA because of Shepard. Ned's first person PoV as an accompanying piece to His Father's Son coming soon..._


End file.
